


Hyde your face from the world

by hydesboy



Category: Jekyll & Hyde - Wildhorn, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 02:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18356369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydesboy/pseuds/hydesboy
Summary: The death of a well recognised man by his-but-not-his hands sent the good Dr. Henry Jekyll fleeing to Paris to escape his sins, but managed to find himself stumbling into the heart of another mystery, one lurking in the depths of the Palais Garnier





	1. With all the hasty arrangements, it was less than a week before the respected doctor set foot within his new Parisian residence

Oh god, even now, a week after the atrocious sin had been committed - a sin of which was not undertaken by his own hands, hand that were so gently touched by the hints of middle age and were warm and full of live, but by the pale, corded, hairy, and taloned nails of another - he could still feel the hot, sticky, metallic smelling stain of a disaster that sparked concern in the hearts of the upper class. But why was it that he, a respectable man of society, the very pink of propriety, a man one could not look upon with anything but kindness, why could he not shed the horrid images of these bloodstained hands?  
This was not the first life that these hands had so artfully snuffed out before it's time, he knew this, the lingering sense of triumph that came about shaking him to his core, nauseating him with the hint of thankfully forbidden knowledge. Why could this twisted courtesy not have carried on? Before his eyes he could see the man - a much loved and well known member of the aristocracy, Sir Danvers Carew, a man he had even entertained at one of his own dinner parties, a kind old man who meant no harm to anybody - broken and bleeding, chest shaking in the final moments of life. Why had this not been kept from him? Had the horror of recognisation shaken the perpetrator of the accursed deed so much as to put aside minor issues such as this, or had he simply chosen to do so in order to gloat in all the clandestine glory of this twisted deed? Not even the 'good' doctor Henry Jekyll himself, who served as both prison and refuge to the murderer, could say what took place in the mind of Edward Hyde.  
While one would think that this should be perfectly manageable, simply a trick of surpressing the wild and frightening urges of Hyde as he had once done, but this was no longer the easy feat it had once been. The transformations had once brought with them delight and whimsy, shedding the form of the doctor to delight in the pleasures of the world in perfect anonymity, but now brought a sense of dread, Hyde having long since been but an aesthetic change but had begun to exist independent, a life of himself that robbed him of memory and self.  
It was known that it was he, the foul daemon of shadow and sin, that had done away with the poor fellow, and the thought of a transformation taking place outside of his will frightened him dearly, a murderer about in clear daylight destined to the hangman's noose.  
With such horrors of mortality ever present in his mind, he knew that he would have to flee, to leave behind him the city - country even - that he had spent the greater portion of his life. He couldn't make such a grand and rash decision without telling a soul, of course, disclosing this intention of travel under the guise of a fear for his life, the London of which he so loved so horribly tainted by tragedy and sorrow. Jekyll was always so skilled in the art of wordsmithery, lies slipping from a silvered tongue with an ease that was disconcerting. With a few honeyed words he could surely convinced anyone to do anything. Even with support and assurances of visits, his most dear Gabriel John Utterson had a very real fear that this was not wholly his decision at all, the strings of blackmail being pulled by the mysterious Edward Hyde, but he did not voice the concerns he had of this being his way of hiding the fiend from the world. Utterson would not put this passed the poor doctor, knowing all the man's worldly possessions belonged to this abhorrent figure upon misfortune.  
With all the hasty arrangements, it was less than a week before the respected doctor set foot within his new Parisian residence. While it was not so grand as the house he left behind, a makeshift laboratory being little more than a bare room he swiftly refurbished to his needs, it was sufficient to his needs. It was, after all, the house of the aristocracy, so it was well suited to his needs, even if he was relatively unknown here, a fact of which equal parts delighted and horrified him.


	2. So important to him was how he was how he was seen to the general public that he cared not how he damned himself in private.

The man's priorities were perhaps not always completely in order, the first thing he did following a trip to the apocathary to obtain the necessary ingredients for his formula - a venture that went far better than he had anticipated, recalling more of his French than he had thought he would, having had little chance to stretch it upon his graduation of schooling - was to show his face and make himself known. First appearances were everything, he knew this, and so he ensured that all was utterly impeccable. He donned the finest tailed coat of which he had, buttons polished to perfection, the soft black being well coupled by a rich, regal purple splash from his pocket square, bowtie, and hat sash, a velveted waistcoat completing the look of class and sophistication. He tied his hair - a dark chestnut brown that was beginning to be touched by streaks of silver - back with a similar fabric to the waistcoat. He had to look absolutely perfect, he could not stand out so glaringly that one might find it ghastly, but he could likewise not be to terribly underwhelming that he might blend into the scenery. It was a fine art of which he'd long mastered. Henry had refined the skills of appearing within society at quite the young age, a socialite of which so played the part of the perfect gentleman, existing within the public eye precisely as he wanted to be seen.  
Henry did want to be seen, of course he did, the damnable narcissist. So important to him was how he was how he was seen to the general public that he cared not how he damned himself in private.   
And oh! How damned he was! So skillfully he had doomed himself to an eternity of suffering of which he would not dare breathe a word to anyone.  
A brief final glance in the mirror before he was off sent shivers down his spine. The eyes that gazed back at him from the so familiar visage were not of the well-known, well loved doctor but of a monster, a daemon lurking deep within a shell of kindness and dignity. The doctor rather preferred to not dwell on such unpleasant matters, even if it was not outright a danger to himself it was still dreadfully unpleasant. Adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time – he had to ensure that he looked perfect, a pleasant countenance was all that was needed to hide a twisted self – he was out the door.   
His leaving was of his own accord, the only obligations to this was of his own device, and this was wonderful! The pitiful man so dearly hoped that this would become somewhat of a regular occurrence, for the socialite that he was the life of a recluse did not suit him at all, only serving to push him further down the path of self-pity wallowable sadness he found himself on.  
If anyone wanted to be seen, there were little better ways of doing so than though art – spoken, visual, song, or a combination of all – as it meant there was little expectation on the person to be anything but seen there. There were little grander opportunities for this than the Opera, and so the man quite quickly secured tickets for a performance at the fabled Palais Garnier, caring little for what the show itself was – even if it was dreadful, which he doubted would be the case because of the reputation of which the Opera House had been given, he could still say he had been – as the entertainment was not as important to him as the resulting mingling with the upper crust that would come of this.  
This was certainly not the first time that he had attended the theatre, far from it as in happier times he would frequent the fine old theatres of London, more often than not in the company of Gabriel, or at least until the lawyer found he had hardly the time to spare on such things. Perhaps if the evening went well, he might even invite the man to accompany him the next time he was to attend. It had been far too long since they had.  
Although was hardly willing to admit it, the moment he caught sight of the grandiose building he was in awe! With its elegantly sculpted white marble, golden adornments, and dazzling glass he had the distinct impression that the near empyreal building was not of this world at all, but instead a part of the glory of heaven that had trickled down to earth to bestow upon mankind its blessings. Or at least was the thought that had so briefly crossed the mind of the man, the gentle fanaticisms gracing his mind and granting him release from the stresses that usually plagued his thoughts. But then, what is a performance but a momentary separation from reality for both audience and actor alike?  
The hustle and the bustle of the enthusiastic crowd hardly gave him the time to properly appreciate the Opera House in all its splendour, however, as they were being ushered inside. The excited whisperings reached the level of a low clamorous roar – “I heard La Carlotta has been said to be the greatest she’s ever been in this role!” “I’ve been dreaming of tonight all week!” “Celia is in the chorus! Isn’t that exciting?” and the like – as people were filing in through the grand doors.  
It was like magic! The audience was so quickly swept up into the music, the story portrayed solely by music and song that it was as if they had fallen under a trance. But as was true of all good things, they must end so terribly soon. But now was the time for the ‘good’ doctor Henry Jekyll to shine, to do what he did best.   
Talk and win favours.  
One skilled in the art of the social circle such as he knew that if one were to find the right people to win over then your place is as secure as it could be.   
With such a thought in mind, he kept an ear out to those who remained milling about afterwards, engaging in the customary small talk that one would expect of such occasions with those he did not care to recall the names of. It was sheer luck that he was able to hear who it was that were the managers of place. Opportune acquaintances indeed!  
“A fine evening indeed, would you not agree, my good fellows?” Jekyll began, practically oozing charm and gentlemanly elegance as he sauntered up to the men, “Am I wrong in my hearing that you are the managers of this fine establishment?” he queried knowing full well the answer of his question. Henry was making sure that he did not complement in the excess lest it feel extreme, gaudy and lacking in sincerity.  
“You heard right, Monsieur,” one of the men, a portly older chap with a well shaped moustache returned, a slightly smug smile upon his face, “It was a fine evening indeed.”

“Surely one of many,” observed Henry with a perfectly crafted degree of nonchalance in his tone that did not suggest a lack of interest in the topic or garishly overly interested, “Or so I have heard, you have quite the reputation for fine arts, one of which has caught the interest of more than a few associates back in London.” 

It was as if the two men of whom he was speaking were birds by the way their chests puffed out at his praise. Whether there was any truth to what he was saying at all way irrelevant, what mattered more was that they thought it to be truthful.  
“Do excuse my poor manners, gentlemen,” said he, clasping his hat to his chest, “Doctor Henry Jekyll, and I am pleased to say this was the first show I have seen in your fair building.”

“Certainly one of our finest, Dr. Jekyll, showing promise of what will come!” returned the taller of the managers, quite enthusiastically shaking the doctor’s hand before he was given the chance to offer it, “André Moncharmin,” the man by the surname of Moncharmin introduced himself, looking about for the man he was with – who had been briefly dragged away by someone bothering him with enquires of some description – in a most exaggerated fashion, “And that was Monsieur Richard Firmin.” he elected to introduce the other for him.

“It is a pleasure to make both of your acquaintances.” Jekyll replied, sounding perfectly earnest in this.  
It was, in fact, perfectly earnest. After all, if he were to be able to become sufficiently chummy with fellows such as he, his place in society would be assured.


End file.
